


Swedish Fish And A Pretty Little Kiss

by patrykrose



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Mention of Joe, Peterick Fluff, just cute fluffy stuff, sickfic kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 19:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16582766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrykrose/pseuds/patrykrose
Summary: Just a lil oneshot in which Pete falls and sprains his ankle and Patrick takes care of him.





	Swedish Fish And A Pretty Little Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in July when I sprained my ankle and was stuck on the couch, REALLY craving Swedish Fish. Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> -Patryk-

“PATRICK, GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!” Pete screamed and ran towards his friend, who was teasingly jogging down the street, turned around towards him, sticking his tongue out mockingly.

Patrick dragged his tongue through his lips swiftly, but kept his pace, only a little faster now. “Come and get me!” He smirked and turned back around, now speeding through the crowd at the free outdoor concert. The two didn't care what band it was, and what genre, or music at all, they were playing, because they went to every one of these concerts in the Chicago area. They went to all of those concerts, yet never paid attention, just ran around and had fun in their own ways, ignoring the music, and they knew it too, by now. There was practically no way they couldn't.

Pete strode faster and faster through the lush grass. As he ran, Patrick only ran faster too, and farther from him, despite his desperate efforts to catch up. He felt his left sandal fly off his foot, then the right, but he kept running and didn't let anything deter him. The whole time, though, he laughed and laughed, and only laughed harder as he felt the grass, soft beneath his now bare feet.

Well, at least he thought nothing would deter him. After a while of running shoeless, he lifted his right foot and it slipped behind his left leg. He felt his ankle pop and the pain begin to set as he fell to the ground. Luckily, he caught himself with his arms and avoided any more trouble from his ankle.

“Patrick, get over here!” Pete shouted ahead of him.

Patrick didn't stop running, and nor did he look back. “Make me!” He called behind his shoulder and laughed.

“Trick, I'm serious!” He laid his head down on the ground and looked up. “I think I did something to my ankle, cause it fuckin’ hurts like Hell!”

This made Patrick stop and turn towards his boyfriend with caution. He jogged a little closer, about 2 feet away and examined Pete's ankle thoroughly. His eyes widened and he closed the gap between them, bending down to get a closer look. “Oh shit, we need to get you to a fucking hospital."

Pete looked at his ankle and shrugged. “It's not that bad.”

“Pete, your foot is backwards in its socket. I think it's pretty bad. Doesn’t it hurt? Cause you aren't making it sound like it does.”

Pete shrugged again and smiled slyly. “It does. I'm just good at ignoring pain,” he sat up and winced a little. “Yeah, I don't need to go to the hospital. You can take care of me!” That had to be the cheesiest thing he had ever said, and he knew it, without a doubt.

Patrick's face dropped drastically. Yeah, Pete could confirm that Patrick had easily figured out the meaning of what he had just said. “Pete no. I will not have sex with you. Not disabled, not ever.”

“Well, that wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but that'd be nice too,” he raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Sigh. “Pete, no. I don't care how far fetched your damage may be. I am not fucking you when you're hurt!”

Pete frowned. “Well you're at least gonna take care of me, aren't you, Patty?”

“If you call me ‘Pat’ or ‘Patty’ one more time, then I'm afraid not. Got it?”

“Ugh, so boring!” He rolled his eyes. “But fine. I'm not letting Joe take care of me again.”

“Good choice,” Patrick lifted the taller, older man into his arms. “I suggest you go to sleep, cause I'm guessing you've got a lot of pain coming your way now.”

Pete closed his eyes and immediately felt himself drifting off to sleep in the warmth of his love’s body pressing against him firmly, comfortingly. It was like black magic, the way that Pete would always find his mind becoming hazy when he was close to Patrick, and after a few short, sweet moments embraced in those pale arms, no matter where he was, everything was silent and dark. And there was nothing in the whole world he loved more.

Pete was 24. Joe was 19. Pete fell off of his car and sprained his wrist. Joe had no idea what to do. Pete didn't know either, and Joe didn't try to take him to get help because “it was too much for him to handle,” as he put it.

So, Joe ended up keeping Pete at his mom’s house to “take care of” him. At least, he called it such. He dragged him by his sprained wrist to the store to buy a splint for his sprained wrist. Needless to say, it hurt like a motherfucker. Of course, he didn't hold a grudge. He could never do that. He was entirely incapable of such a treacherous task.

When Pete opened his eyes, he could already tell this was going to be better than that. Of course, when he sprained his wrist, he had never met Patrick. This was a relief compared to that.

For starters, he was in a really soft, cozy bed, with fluffy-ass white, thick blankets, his foot propped carefully on a mound of pillows. The walls were well taken care of, not a single dent or chaffing in the slick black paint. That probably sounded weird. See, Pete's walls were covered in holes coincidentally the perfect size for his fists and the paint drooped weightily down the foundation, which much of was broken in itself.

Before he could examine any more, the door popped open and Patrick stepped in. “Damn, Pat, thisiss your hooouuuse???” Pete mumbled. He didn't realize how foggy his brain was until he tried to speak and it just came out as what sounded like a mating whale.

Patrick smiled and nodded. “My mom went a little overboard,” he laughed a little, and Pete thought it was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life.

“Pat?”

“Hmm?” Patrick glanced over and sat down on the bed.

Pete clicked his tongue slowly. “Why isn't ma ankle hurtin’?”

Patrick huffed. “Painkillers. Lots and lots of painkillers,” he closed his eyes. “You woke up and started screaming after only a few, so I guess I just got you loaded on ‘em to stop the pain. Obviously not enough for an overdose, but enough. I know, I suck at taking care of people, but you should go back to sleep and I'll go get you some ice cream. But first, what kind do you want?”

Pete thoroughly contemplated his choices. “You'll get me any kind I want?!?!”

Patrick opened his eyes and nodded. “Yup,” he poked Pete's nose and retreated his hand. “Or, if you don't want ice cream, I'll buy you whatever else you want.”

Pete laughed cutely and looked up at Patrick with puppy-dog eyes. “Anything???” He pondered.

Patrick nodded again enthusiastically. “Absolutely anything.”

Pete thought about this for a moment and nodded. “I don't think you can buy me this, but I think I want you to kiss me.”

Patrick sighed. “Okay, fine, I'll kiss you, and then I'll buy you something once you're asleep. Before I kiss you, though, what do you want me to buy you?”

“M’kay,” he smiled. “I want Swedish Fish. Now kiss me.”

“Alright, Pete, I'll kiss you,” Pete drowsily observed a slight blush appear on Patrick’s cheeks. The strawberry-blond leaned awkwardly in, so the pair’s noses were gently scraping against one another. “I'm not a very good kisser, though, so be prepared,” he only gently pecked the older man’s lips, but that seemed to be enough to make Pete happy. 

Patrick leaned away and closed his eyes. Pete smiled goofily and giggled. “Thanks, Pat.”

Patrick opened his eyes and laid down on the bed next to Pete, wrapping his arms around him and pulling the boy towards him. He buried his face in Pete’s shoulder and closed his eyes again. As soon as Patrick settled into his position, Pete felt that haze fog his mind, more than it already was, and the boys fell asleep snuggled with one another.

Pete opened his eyes again and felt the pain in his ankle begin to settle. He groaned and noticed the short, warm, even breaths on his shoulder. He turned his head slightly, as not to disturb the sound. Next to him, he saw a disheveled Patrick with his glasses hanging off his face pressed firmly against him in his peripheral vision. He moved his head back to where it was and simply focused on the shallow breaths on his shoulder, and all the pain went away.

“Patrick,” There was a gentle pat on his shoulder. “Patrick, you gotta get up.”

“Mmhmm, I don't wanna!” He grumbled.

Pete sighed gently. “Patrick, it's noon.”

Patrick shot up in the bed. “Pete?!?! Er- Uh, It's- it's noon?!”

Pete smirked and sat up. “Yeah, noon, alright.”

Patrick shot Pete a look of distaste. “Don't look at me like that. You were high as fuck, and--"

“Yeah, I was, not you.”

“SHUT UP!!!” He stood up and pushed up his glasses uncomfortably. “I'm gonna go get your Swedish Fish.”

“My Swedish Fish?” He smiled. “Get me Sour Patch Kids. I only like Swedish Fish when I'm high.”

“... Fine. Sour Patch Kids it is, then,” he nodded briskly and left. “You wanna drink?”

“Yeah, get me some fuckin’ booze or somethin’” he leaned back into the pillow. “My ankle's already killin’ me.”

Patrick stopped in the doorway. “It’s 12 PM, why in the name of Hell would I get you alcohol?”

Pete shrugged and picked up his phone, turned it on and set it back down on the nightstand. “Actually,” he said. “It’s 12:09 PM. Get me booze.”

“Whatever. I'm not getting you alcohol. The painkillers are on the nightstand, if your blind ass would look.”

Pete glanced blandly over and shrugged, then looked back at Patrick. “Somehow, those painkillers only hurt me more.”

“Good for you. I'm not getting you booze. Just go to sleep.”

“I've been sleeping for the past twenty fou-- HEY!!!” Patrick slammed the door shut before Pete could finish. “Asshole.”

About an hour later, Patrick opened the door holding a bag of Sour Patch Kids and a bottle of whiskey. He walked over and sat on the bed, handing him the bag and bottle. “You're lucky I'm a nice guy. It took me awhile to convince the clerk I was 21.”

Pete smiled and gratefully took Patrick’s offering. “Thank you. I really wasn't expecting even the Sour Patch Kids.”

Patrick didn't mention it, but he did notice, Pete was acting really… nice to him after that. Unusually nice. But it wasn't overbearing, he was just acting genuine, which was something Pete Wentz almost never did. It was shocking to him.

Pete smiled and opened the bag of Sour Patch Kids, automatically shoving one in his mouth. “You wan’ some?” He asked and held the bag out to Patrick.

“No, you're the handicapped one.”

Pete shrugged. “I guess. If you change your mind, just let me know.”

You know, Patrick loved Sour Patch Kids. They were his favorite snack. In any other circumstance, he would've accepted, but he wanted to be sure that Pete was serious and wasn't just pushing his boundaries.

Every day for the next week, Patrick tended to Pete’s injured ankle, which was getting better. Patrick brought him a bag of Sour Patch Kids and a bottle of whiskey every day at noon and they would just sit and talk for a few hours. And Pete had never stopped being nice to him.

Then, one week later, at noon, Patrick came with the daily Sour Patch Kids and whiskey, and sat down on the bed. “Pete,” he said.

“Yeah, ‘Trick?”

“I wanna ask you something.”

“Fire away.”

“Why have you been so nice to me this week?” Patrick saw Pete’s face contort uncomfortably.

“Uh… I, um…” Pete sat up and grabbed Patrick’s face in his hands and pulled the younger boy towards him so they could feel each other’s breath. “Patrick, I have a confession to make. My ankle is fine. It was fine after one night. I just didn't want this to end. I didn't want to leave because I wanted to spend time with you and… because I'm in love with you," the last part was quickly forced out.

He let go of Patrick's face, sat back and tucked his knees to his chest. “I'm sorry, it was a terrible thing to do, to force you to take care of me and--"

He was interrupted by a pair of soft lips crashing against his and his face being cupped in Patrick’s gentle, pale hands. And Pete happily gave in to the kiss Patrick instigated. Once Patrick slightly pulled away, he smiled. “Don't be sorry. I think it was the sweetest thing you ever could've done for me. Sour Patch Kids and whiskey, the ultimate combo, am I right?” he cooed softly.

“Yup. Sour Patch Kids and whiskey,” Pete grabbed the bag of Sour Patch Kids off the floor and opened them. “Well now that you know I'm perfectly fine, you want some?”

Patrick moved to the other side of the bed and grabbed Pete’s hand, taking a Sour Patch Kid from the bag with his other. “Of course.”


End file.
